


Callback

by orphan_account



Series: Umbrella Protégé [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Anderson goes to an Interview, Gen, London, Maybe - Freeform, Twoshot, hunor, idk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-25 01:53:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn't know why or how he manages to screw everything up in his life. But somehow Anderson does, and somehow he's made himself late for the best job offer ever. Okay- so he doesn't even really know what the job even is- but still. Anything that gets him away from the freak is fantastic.</p><p>In which Anderson is called for a second interview with a man he knows only as Mycroft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Callback

"That's totally adorable-" chitters a woman near a store window. She frowns and looks annoyed when a dark headed man nearly plows into her from behind. He's lost in the sea of bodies in a December London.

A redhaired man snaps into his phone, "I told you that I'd get the files- Hey! What are you-" he shouts as someone in a suit and winter accesories pushes past him.

Anderson hisses in the cold and maneuvers, barely, around the thick Christmas-time crowds in central London. He is so late for this interview. And he is not going to get this job.

Anderson's stomach lurches as his eyes fall on a building past all the windowed stores. It's a nondescript place, dark red brick with a small marquee proclaiming it to be Walter-Moore Business International.

Anderson remembers as he weaves through the now sparser crowds and approaches Walter-Moore. The interviewer, Mycroft, had called him back, to his surprise.

Anderson admires the brick for a moment. He knows that Mycroft isn't just an interviewer- he's important somehow. But how? As his pale hand closes around the handle to the entrance door of Walter-Moore, he thinks, Maybe CEO. He's not aware that the building itself is a front for the English government, that even the seeming office workers are actually a sort of skeleton crew of various security-cleared British law officials.

Warm air blasts into his face as Anderson crosses the threshold into the building. The reception area is tastefully decorated with modern paintings and unusual sofas. At the center of it all is the reception desk. A young woman with brown hair sits behind it.

He flies towards the desk with a flurry of emotions running across his face. "Anderson- I'm Anderson- I was scheduled for a three o' clock-"

The woman smiles without lifting her eyes to view Anderson's harried visage. Her eyes stare at her computer screen and her hand clicks against the mouse.

"A bit late, are we?" she asks pleasantly, now scrolling with an interested expression. "Your interview's occurring upstairs, room 50, left of the entrance from stairwell B."

Anderson nods and jets off. As he trots blindly through the halls and swings around corners, he chances a look at his watch. Three-thirteen.

\---

"That was him?" a man asks, unimpressed, emerging from a hallway into the lobby. "Doesn't seem like a detective, huh, Anthea?"

The receptionist shrugs, smiles and keeps staring at her computer screen, fingers occasionally flickering across the keyboard. More officers come out of the woodwork, appearing from storage closets and hidden hallway rooms.

"What do you got up on that computer there?" A younger man asks curiously, edging towards the reception desk. The girl pays no mind to him and continues her work.

"Maybe- oh, come on! Tetris?"

A man in a starched white polo with salt and pepper hair materializes next to the computer and whistles. "Hot damn, kiddo! Forty lines in two minutes?"

Anthea mashes the left arrow key and ignores the crowd growing around her.

\----

Mycroft's in room 50 lounging in a leather swivel chair and staring at a cell phone. When Anderson rushes in and shuts the door he looks up at the sound. "You're sixteen minutes late," he says, and then grins when he comprehends what he's seeing.

Anderson is wearing a suit and loafers; however, he's also wearing a damp scarf, a huge blue puffer coat, and a toboggan, which has half-slid off of his dark hair and is hanging in his face.

"No excuse," Anderson wheezes, "but there were people in the square shopping. Actually, the majority of them were gazing stupidly-" He stops when he spots Mycroft's expression. "What?"

"Just admiring your wardrobe," Mycroft says, leaning back in the chair even further. Behind him, a huge conference table sits imposingly. "Were you trying for the blueberry look?"

Anderson stares, uncomprehending, before looking down at his large puffer coat and scarf, placed over a deep brown suit. He's silent for a while- when he finally speaks, he's got an expression on his face that just screams "I am through with this bullshit."

He simply says, "Oh," dully and looks at a leather conference chair. Mycroft pats the chair next to him. 

Anderson semi-collapses into the chair, eyes tired and visage distinctly ruffled. Mycroft pushes his feet against the carpet and scoots backwards a bit, placing some distance between himself and the other man.

"You work at the Metropolitan, Mister Anderson. Tardiness is not a character trait the police value," Mycroft says, no affect touching his voice.

Anderson's mouth curves downward. "Considering all of the times London Metro has been too late to a domestic call, too late to a burglary, too late to a kidnapping...I think sixteen minutes is forgivable."

Anderson cringes inwardly when he hears the words come out of his mouth. Anderson thinks quietly to himself- it's not the same. His time is useless and this man, Mycroft, he's not going to be interested in a shitty investigator. He's lucky he's made it to a second interview at all. Of course he managed to screw it up, he screws up everything.

To his discomfort, Mycroft just stifles an amused snort and shifts in his chair, waiting.

\---


End file.
